The Blind Illusionist
The Blind Illusionist
Fate wears white gloves and pulls a whole dream from its top hat,
Twirls it in its palm like a tarot card that's burning,
Watches me applaud in my sleep, then whispers to me "choose",
But whatever I choose turns to smoke and to ash that's lost.
In the dream, I wander through houses with doors leading only to other houses,
Every room holds a beauty I will never get to touch,
The mirrors swallow my outstretched hands, leave me only empty cuffs,
And an echo laughing somewhere, behind some strange curtain.
I'm shown gardens suspended in the air of a crystal moment,
A sky with two moons drawing close as in a forbidden kiss,
Then a soundless bell wakes me, a signal
That it was all just props in a theater of dreams.
It's a blind magician dealing cards without ever seeing their faces,
Shows me the king of cups, then turns him into drought and bone,
Smiles with a stitched-shut mouth, like a doll with no life in it,
And still I play, though I know the stakes are always rigged low.
To give and take back is a trick as old as the world's illusion,
A handkerchief hiding a dove that never existed,
I applaud again in my sleep, though I feel the edges of the earth tearing,
Beneath the chair I'm sitting on, in this suspended hall.
Maybe I was never more than a card drawn from a stranger's deck,
A joker who believes himself king in a story written by someone else,
I'm afraid now of every beautiful dream knocking gently, calmly, at the window of my mind,
Knowing the blind illusionist will clap his hands again and take back what he gave me, or not.
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